


One Pearl in the Salty Ocean

by Entropyrose



Series: Baby Boomer [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: A/B/O Universe, Alpha Brock Rumlow, Alpha Steve Rogers, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Don't Read This, M/M, Miscarriage, Mpreg, Omega Bucky Barnes, Post Mpreg, Pregnant Bucky Barnes, Rape, Unrequited Love, seriously this is trash, this is all leading up to some nasty shit, unrequited stony, unrequited winterbones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-28
Updated: 2017-01-29
Packaged: 2018-09-20 11:22:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9488861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Entropyrose/pseuds/Entropyrose
Summary: The prologue to a piece written exclusively for RedPredator, who has been my partner in crime through this whole thing.Basically, the events leading up to Bucky and Steve having a kid. Very angsty, lots of trash.





	1. The Ocean

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hiemallily](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hiemallily/gifts).



> This is trash. How much more can I say? You have been warned. Proceed if you like sadness, you sadistic crazy person you.

It’s true what they say; given time, everything hurts a little less. The pain doesn’t age as the wound heals so much as it becomes a part of it. Every new step faults the inward scarring and you can feel the sharp pang in the place where you sewed yourself up. The sensation lessens only as you expose yourself to that thing that hurt you in the first place—flex that muscle, test the waters, try to stay above the waves.

 

Brock takes a long drag off his cigarette and stares down the 300-foot drop of the dam. He taps the butt on the painted railing and feels a familiar stirring way down deep in his gut as the throaty rumble of a motorcycle draws closer. He lifts his head as the smell of burnt oil wafts through his nose and warms his lungs. The rider taps the kick-stand with a booted foot and dismounts, tucking his helmet under the crook of his arm as he approaches.

 

The wind kicks up the fine dust swirling at the bottom of the gully and lifts the feathery tendrils of hair away from the rider’s face. Rumlow swallows down the lump rising in his throat and tries a smile. “Hey.”

 

Bucky doesn’t respond right away, his face stoic and gaze planted firmly on the sleepy horizon, the red sun illuminating the gold embers burning in his hazel eyes. Without a word, he slips two gloved fingers  over the cigarette and raises it to his lips. Rumlow’s heart sinks just a little when Bucky pauses, inspects it, and places it back in Rumlow’s hand. “Thanks for meetin’ me.” He steps up to the cement platform, perching one foot on the railing and stares down at the quiet trickle of water that escapes down the rounded wall.

 

“No problem.” Rumlow finishes the cigarette and flicks it into the drain, watching the ashes escape in a swirl of soft yellow sparks.  He could guess what this is going to be about. It’s why he’s spent the entire day in the gym letting his knuckles fly through the stuffing of a heavyweight boxing bag, keeping himself busy, working every muscle and organ and bone to the point of breaking to _keep_ from guessing.

 

“I…I guess…I just wanted you to hear it from me before you heard it from anyone else.”

 

Whenever an ex approaches him after a long, ugly breakup, there are two things Brock can be sure of: 1) It has absolutely nothing to do with him, and 2) It’s either a wedding or a baby. He feels his heart go right to his throat when Bucky lets out a ragged breath and steals Rumlow’s hand to slide it up under his shirt. There, trapped under the warmth of Bucky’s riding jacket, his fingers conform to the slight roundness of his belly, fluttering over the light dusting of hair underneath his navel. His eyes slide closed, a sudden stinging sensation rimming his eyes. He can’t help but murmur a soft, “Fuck.”

 

As suddenly as Bucky had drawn him close, he slides Brock’s hand away, turning back to the setting sun that burns in a jagged line just above the darkening trees.

 

“How far along?”

 

“Twelve weeks.” Bucky’s voice nears a whisper and Brock can’t be sure, but he almost thinks he sees his bottom lip quiver. “I uh…I wanted to be sure, this time.”

 

 _This time._ Brock swallows so hard his adam’s apple bounces up to his chin and suddenly the stinging sensation in his eyes is followed with the welling of a certain wetness.

 

Bucky smells lovely. Whenever he is pregnant, the usual spice of his cinnamon/chocolate scent is doused with the subtle completeness coriander and lilac. There is also another smell, one that makes Rumlow visibly grimace. It is undeniably _Steve._ He feels his hackles raise a little and wrinkles his nose. They must be making love every chance they get—as much as Rumlow hates admitting it, he also gets it. Because he would be doing the same. That muscular, pliable body, those haunting emerald eyes, the way Bucky hisses just a little on every inhale and drags his nails down. To claim _that,_ coupled with having created a life with him— _inside_ of him—belly slightly rounded and feather-soft to the touch…

 

“Thanks,” Rumlow snaps, shoving a hand in one pocket and abruptly turning away. “I’m happy for you. Good luck with that.”

 

A metal hand snags the back of his sleeve, the tug gentle but firm enough to stop him in his tracks. “Rum…Rumlow…” It took a long time for Bucky to call him that. Used to be “sir”. Brock would coax him into it, nibble on his lips until they were plump and sore, make him repeat his name, his real name, until he was moaning it on repeat.

 

Brock turns regardless of knowing what he’s going to see; those glistening eyes and that slightly-open puppy-dog pout, the one that makes Rumlow want to hack the moon down with a giant machete and hand it to Bucky on a golden platter because he would do anything— _oh, god, anything—_ for his happiness. He flutters his eyelids, feigning irritation. “What.”

 

“I wanted to ask you something. But it’d stay between you and me. At least, till I could warm Steve up to the idea.”

 

Brock’s eyes narrow, in earnest this time.

 

“I wasn’t wondering if…” Bucky’s tongue flicks out, wetting his lips till they shine.

 

“Jesus-christ, Winter, spit it out.”

 

“…if you’d be the God-parent.”

 

Rumlow blinks, slowly. “You’re right. That should stay between you and me.” He can just imagine how _thrilled_ Bucky’s blond-haired Adonis of a baby-daddy would be when we heard _that_ little nugget of information.  

 

Bucky nods slowly, the light going out of his eyes as he slides a cold look back out to the horizon. The steel fingers unclasp, releasing Rumlow’s arm as he backs away. “Yeah. Guess you’re right.”

 

Watching him walk away stings worse. Rumlow jams his foot into the gravel, cursing himself inwardly before trotting to catch up to him. “Bucky. Hey.” It’s his turn to be the one holding back, and he wraps his arms around Bucky’s shoulders, drawing him backwards into his chest. Bucky stiffens, his shoulders going rigid to the point of nearly pulling away before instinctively sinking inward, letting his guard down enough to be held. Brock’s lips are nearing Bucky’s pulse-point, where his scent is concentrated and overwhelmingly familiar, a place Brock _used to smell like._ “I would be honored.”

 

“Yeah?,” Bucky breathes.

 

Brock forces a smile, because if he could, he _would_ be happy for him. He would be happy and nothing else. The relieved smile that’s lighting up Bucky’s face is reason enough to say, “Yeah.”

 

Bucky turns in his arms, returning the embrace, the familiar creek of leather the only other sound besides their collective nervousness and anger dissolving into relieved laughter. “Thank you,” he whispers, and pulls away rather quickly, knowing better than to let the contact linger too long.

 

Brock watches him mount the bike, secretly wishing he had the balls to tell Bucky not to ride that damn thing while he’s _carrying_. He bites his tongue and decides to let the moment breathe.

Bucky tears off through the parking lot and disappears. The rumble of the motor is slowly swallowed up by the dense trees as Rumlow turns back to the scene before him. He slides another cigarette out of its carton, lights up, and lets the ash sit on his tongue. Maybe, if he’s lucky, it’ll erase some of the scent still clinging to him.

 

* * * * *

 

“You wanna tell me what the _fuck_ you think you’re doing?” Rumlow lets the door bounce off its hinges and crash into the glass wall behind on his way to gather as much of the front of Steve’s uniform as his fists will allow. He flattens him to the wall, ignoring the ice-cold flash that flares in Steve’s eyes and the iron grip that squeezes in around his wrists.

 

“Whoa, whoa!” Tony is the first to flit to Steve’s rescue—little surprise there. Even years of pining after the clueless sonofabitch haven’t hardened him to certain truths about his precious Captain. He steels a hand on Rumlow’s chest and shoves backward, for what little good it’ll do him. “Hold up there, big guy!”

 

“Letting him go on a mission?” Rumlow barks, leaning close in to the Captain, the heat of his breath searing his face. “Are you fucking _serious_?” He shoves Tony off with a flick of his elbow, a threatening glare the beta’s only warning.

 

“You think I wanted this?” Steve’s grip is firm, but his shoulders go flat against the wall, his eyes flitting across the room as if looking for an excuse that’ll get the Shield Agent off of him. “ _You_ try telling him to stay at home!”

 

“You let him fly a fucking desk for all I care, but _combat?!_ Come ON Cap! What do you not get about this?”

 

“Alright, stop—STOP!” Tony’s hand flickers as the metal thing attached to it charges up with an electric squeal and Rumlow reluctantly shifts away, leaving the Captain to shrug the wrinkles out of his uniform with an indignant “huff”.

 

He stalks to the far end of the meeting table to walk off the blood still boiling in his veins. “Piece of shit,” he throws back behind his shoulder.

 

“What the hell is this all about?” Rumlow steals a half-interested glance but Tony is eyeing the Captain, now, hands planted firmly on his hips, visibly chewing at his bottom lip.

 

Steve lets out a ragged sigh and wipes his palms together. “It’s nothing.”

 

“Sure doesn’t seem like _nothing_ …”

 

Rumlow storms out down the hall. Maybe he can talk some sense into the kid, even if his blond, jock dumb-ass of an alpha can’t.

 

“Brock—“ Steve trots up after him, and Rumlow keeps walking. He clamps a firm hand on his shoulder and Rumlow jerks back, spinning out of the Captain’s reach. “Leave it be.”

 

“What, like you do? I don’t fucking think so. Maybe you don’t give a shit, Cap, but I _do._ His body has been through a lot in the last few decades and super-soldier or _not,_ it’s about to go through a shit-ton more. It’s not just the _pups’_ health we’re talking about here.” Rumlow feels some satisfaction when Steve’s eyes slide away and a pink glow settles on his face, like maybe the mouth-breather is finally beginning to get the point.

 

“Let me talk to him,” Steve says softly.

 

“What, so he can use that omega-jedi-mind-fuck to get what he wants anyway? No, I don’t think so, Cap.”

 

Steve’s brow furls, every feature on his face deepening, and there it is; the guttural growl rumbling up from low in his chest, the possessive beast-like nature of every alpha to protect what is _theirs_ _._

Rumlow quirks an eyebrow. “So, what, we gonna start clubbing each other with sticks, this time? Or am I going to go talk some sense into _your_ very pregnant omega?”

 

“It’s not your _place,_ ” Steve gruffs.

 

“Ohhh, come on, tell the truth, Cap.” Rumlow sidles up, taking in a deep drag of the rival alpha’s scent and blowing his own in Steve’s face. His hackles raised, teeth slightly bared, mouth curved upward into a taunting grin. “You just don’t want me that close to him.”

 

Steve is making it very clear, by his faring nostrils, the tuck of his chin into the high collar of his suit, the way he shakes and curls his fists in so tight they go white, that he is just barely holding back the tidal wave that is threatening to break over them both.

 

Rumlow snorts under his breath and turns on his heel, leaving the growling alpha to chew on his own pride.

 

* * * * *

 

Bucky does still listen to him, sometimes. Rumlow wonders if it’s part of who they are now, a part he’ll never lose to some big, blond knuckle-dragger. “You piss him off on purpose,” Bucky scolds him softly as he wipes down his AR-15 over the open case. 

 

He must have scented Steve on him—or maybe the sneer on his face says everything Bucky needs to know. The little mind-reader. Rumlow perches himself on the low-lying window sill behind them, staring down and let himself admire the slice of sunlight that spills onto Bucky’s hair. He smiles and reaches out to lift a strand with his finger, watching it glisten red before tucking it behind his ear. “Yeah, maybe.” Bucky shakes his head, the strand flying free, falling down into his face and it just makes Rumlow’s grin widen. “Still don’t get what you see in him.”

 

Bucky falls silent as he collects the gun and meticulously seals it away in its case, locking it down to store it next to the others. When he stands up, Rumlow’s eyes fall to the outline of his belly that just barely peaks out from under the leather and ballistic gear. Bucky turns to the open locker and shrugs it off, the delicious scent of bred omega filling the air. Rumlow’s eyes draw closed, his mouth watering.

 

“Jesus, Buck, you’re beautiful.”

 

“Shut up.” The comeback rolls out sleek, lilting and diminished, lacking its normal edge as he hangs up the vest and begins peeling off the tight black undershirt.

 

Rumlow hops off the sill, closing the distance between them with a single slide and catching the hem of Bucky’s shirt in his calloused hands, pushing it over his head. “I can undress myself, you know,” Bucky says with an uneasy laugh.

 

“I miss you,” Rumlow mumurs, as if that is excuse enough to warrant the touch. His mouth close enough to Bucky’s ear that he can smell Steve’s scent rolling off his neck. Bucky is so warm under here, skin feather-soft and quivering slightly underneath his familiar touch.

 

“Brock,” Bucky warns.

 

“Mmmm…” Brock has dissolved against him, now, lining up with Bucky’s back, pressing gently into it and he hefts the scrap of cloth off the rest of the way, sliding both hands down both arms, shuddering at the simultaneous feeling of warm skin and cool metal.

 

“Stop,” Bucky commands, turning in his arms. The sharpness has returned to his voice, mercurial eyes staring up at him through cinnamon-brown hair, cold and threatening and burning with a secret need.

 

“Have they started moving?” Rumlow asks, re-directing him on purpose, his eyes falling to Bucky’s rounded belly. Bucky looks away, seemingly ignorant of the fact that Rumlow’s hand is now down past his navel, his fingers barely brushing underneath the waistband of his tactical gear to cup the rounded bulge.

 

“Yh..yeah.” Bucky’s expression switches between embarrassment and complacency before finally settling on the latter, moving his hand on top of Rumlow’s, giving his hand a firm press inward.

 

Rumlow’s eyes flash in surprise at the sudden flutter of a tiny little body underneath the skin and lets out a shocked sigh. “Oh! Oh wow…” He moves his hand freely around, exploring the ebbing mound that’s growing heated and happy at his touch. “How many?”

 

“Three.” Bucky chuckles a little then adds, “That we’re sure of for now.”

 

Rumlow’s eyes fly up to meet Bucky’s, filled with child-like wonder. “For now? You mean…?”

 

“Doc thinks there could be a fourth one. A runt. Doesn’t have a heartbeat yet, so only time will tell.”

 

Bucky’s gaze drifts away, his face softened with a hint of sadness. “I…” Rumlow’s mouth hangs open. He wants to find something more to say, anything, but nothing he can think of seems adequate.

 

How badly he’s wanted this. How badly he’d prayed for pups, all those years in Hydra, when it was just him and the Asset. Charged with keeping him secure, safe, and yes…sometimes even happy. Wanting pups was a natural instinct, one that Hydra encouraged. Too late they discovered that putting his brain in a blender or putting him on ice  or forcing him through rigorous training scenarios shot that chance all to hell. Fucking idiots. They knew alright. They knew and they just couldn’t be bothered to give a flying fuck.

 

Finally, Rumlow had worked out a deal that would keep Bucky out of cryo long enough to conceive and hopefully give birth to healthy, normal pups. _Their_ pups. It meant more missions for Rumlow but that was not even a question, not even a concern, not even on the same plane…as the idea of the Asset, _his Asset,_ with a belly full and squirming with his babies.

 

“It’ll be alright,” Bucky says, snapping Rumlow out of his thoughts. He shakes his head and backs away, shoving his hands down deep into his pockets.

 

“Sorry,” Rumlow barks. “Just…Just promise me. No more missions. Alright? For me. And…” Rumlow threw his head to the doorway, where no doubt Steve would be entering soon. “…for him.”

 

Bucky blinks softly and turns to pull down a duffel from the top shelf of his locker, his eyes still locked on Rumlow. “Yeah…yeah, alright.”

 

Brock can’t decipher if Bucky is saying that because he knows it’s what he wants to hear, or because he doesn’t want to fight or what, but he accepts it, nodding his head sharply and turning for the door. “Okay,” he mumurs. The door opens just as he goes for the handle, and Steve brushes past, banging his shoulder in to Rumlow’s as he struts in, unzipping and tossing off his uniform top.

 

Rumlow slips out just as Steve turns to glare at him. He is fighting back the urge to wrap his arms around Bucky, to put his hands all over him and to touch wherever Rumlow touched and Rumlow knows it because that’s exactly what he’d be doing if a strange alpha touched Bucky—if Bucky were his.

 

* * * * *

 

Thank god for “Follie’s Tavern. It’s a small, inconspicuous dive that’s just off the main freeway and one turn into the seedy part of town. Brock grabs the first one available—just so happens to be a beta he’s been with before. A tattooed punk with purple hair and dark brown eyes and wicked long legs. Rumlow’s going to put those legs to good use.

 

He growls and furiously throws the lanky kid up against the wall, rutting in between his thighs, against the skin-tight jeans, nipping at the thick black dog-collar around his neck.

 

Smart whores wear something around their neck to keep the scent gland hidden and protected. Chances are, they already have a mate who would get a little more than upset if their mate was being marked up by some random John.

 

“Whoa, easy there big guy,” the beta says with a startled giggle. “You got what I need?”

 

Rumlow bites angrily at the stupid collar before giving up and aiming lower to sink his mouth into the kid’s collar bone. He reaches back as he pushes forward, fumbling awkwardly for his wallet. “Yeah. Three-hundred, just like last time.”

 

“Mhh, okay, good start,” The beta moans, pressing forward despite the pain, wrapped up in the murky, masculine smell of the alpha. “And the other thing?”

 

Rumlow lets out an angry huff and raises two fingers from behind him. In between them is a square, golden wrapper.

 

“Aah, there we are. Good boy.” Rumlow hoists him up further on the wall, keeping him there as he pops the button on his pants and jerks his hips forward. His cock flies out, hard and ready, the root already bulging, threatening to expand into a knot if he doesn’t get this show on the road.

 

The kid rips open the package, because he knows damn well that if he really wants it on, he’s going to have to do it himself. Rumlow doesn’t have the time to give a shit, and besides, it’s not like the kid could get pregnant. He lines up the condom with the bulbous head of his dick and rolls it down just as Rumlow seals the gap between them, shoving inside with one rough jerk of his hips.

 

“Mmmh—“ The kid bites down on his bottom lip, his head going back in pain, not pleasure, clamping his eyes shut as his body spasms around the swelling pressure.

 

“Sorry,” Rumlow remarks, even as he builds a rhythm that has him shoving deeper inside.

 

The kid huffs out a laugh, languidly throwing his long arms around his taught neck as he rides out the thrusts. “Aren’t you going to ask me my name?,” he says as his head rolls to one side, latching his long legs around Rumlow’s waist. “Usually they ask my name around the third time or so.”

 

“Why would I?,” Rumlow manages between grunts, flattening a hand to the wall behind the beta as he grabs his ass, spreading it open further to accept the full length inside. “Not like you’d tell me your real name anyway.”

 

The beta laughs, and nods his head shakily. “What about his name?”

 

Rumlow’s hips still mid-thrust, his dark eyes suddenly searing into the beta’s. “What.”

 

“The…you know…the guy who’s got you so worked up.”

 

“How would you know it’s a guy?”

 

The beta laughs again. “Oh please! You never come here looking for anything else. And today, you sort of smell a little like him. So how about it, sexy? What’s his name? He must be pretty special for you to have to make a stop here every other day or so.”

 

A low growl peals from deep within Rumlow and his eyes flash. The hand on the wall clamps down on the kid’s shoulder, bringing him down on his cock and the growing bulb at his hilt.

“Stop--!” The beta cries out in pain as the quivering ring of muscle is split open over Rumlow’s knot. Rumlow shoves a fist in his mouth, reducing the sound to a high whimper as his cock is swallowed whole by the kid’s tight, warm, unyielding little opening.

 

“You ain’t worthy to tie his shoes.” He leans forward, grunting in time to the rhythmic slap of skin-on-skin as his knot presses inward, past the puckered hole, sealing himself inside.

 

The beta is now writhing on Rumlow’s cock as hot tears spill angrily down his cheeks, His legs dangling against the wall, kicking and clinging to nothing. He weakly batters a fist against Rumlow’s back as he shudders, helpless to do anything about it.

 

A groan peals through his throat as he rubs himself raw, climbing faster and faster until he climaxes, releasing inside with a final dying grunt and collapsing against the wall, spent. His fist slips from the kid’s mouth, red and bloody with his teeth-prints.

 

“You fucking prick,” the beta spits out, tears still welling in his eyes.

 

Rumlow lets out a bitter chuckle. “More man than you could handle, huh kid?”

 

“No wonder your dream-boat don’t want you.”

 

The back of Rumlow’s hand flies across his face, bruising the back of his skull as it lands against the wall. The kid brings his leg up, defensively, still trapped on Rumlow’s knot. “You’re only gonna hurt yourself,” Rumlow warns, flattening him to the wall and clamping one hand down on his wriggling leg. “Don’t worry. We won’t be tied together for long. You’re not that good-looking.”

 

* * * * *

 

“I don’t want him touching you.”

 

Bucky’s head rolls back against Steve’s shoulder and he lets out a soft groan, sliding one tired leg out and resting it on the edge of the tub as a little water slaps to the floor. “Not this again.”

 

“I’m serious.” Steve runs a wide hand across Bucky’s chest, slicking his skin with fragrant soap, drawing him further into his bulging arms.

 

Bucky sweeps his metal fingers across Steve’s, watching the water trickle from his fingers and pool in between Steve’s “What’re you so worried about?,” he murmurs.

 

Steve lets out a ragged sigh and set his chin on Bucky’s shoulder. “M’not worried. I just…I know what that guy’s capable of.”

 

Bucky huffs. “And I don’t? Christ, Stevie, I can take care of myself.” He turns in the tub, letting the cooling water slosh over the side, pressing his head to Steve’s wide chest, being careful not to get his metal arm wet.

 

Steve’s fingers gloss over it, inspecting each mirror-finished scale, tracing little circles around the fine scratches of the red star. “Am…Am I gonna be a good Daddy?”

 

Bucky’s eyes flick upwards to meet Steves, his expression going from confusion to surprise before finally settling on empathy. He smiles gently, reaching one flesh finger up to streak a wet line down his husband’s cheek. “You’re gonna be a great Daddy.” Bucky’s smile widens as he adds, “Idiot.” He playfully chucks Steve under his chin.

 

* * * * *

 

Four days later and Bucky’s on a rooftop overlooking the city. There’s been a disturbance near the tower, and the Avengers have been called out to come investigate. Bucky stayed inside, near the communications center, for as long as he could possibly stand. But radio chatter has gotten sparse and what does come through the crackling channels are tinged with the sound of rapid gunfire. He did what any trained assassin would do; slipped his AR-15 out if its hiding place on the floor near the console, scaled the building and leapt across. From the rooftop, he can see a small cloud of smoke emanating from the lower portion of the tower, sparking with electricity and puffs of fire that flare up. His gaze goes instinctively upward, and he watches as Sam rounds the building in his jet-suit. Bucky’s eye is back on the scope, now, finger on the trigger as he zooms in and sees black-clad bodies scaling the side of the building. Easy enough.

 

He picks off the first few he sees, listens intently to the radio for Steve’s voice. “C’mon, Cap…” he mutters, the anxiety building. The pups feel it too, as they begin squirming in his belly, flattened on the concrete wall and causing Bucky’s stomach to do backflips. He swats at the feeling, gently tapping his belly before angling the scope and searching for his next target. “Stop it babies,” he mumurs, squirming at the sensation. He brings himself up on his knees, giving the pups a little more room, steadying the rifle on his shoulder and zooming in to the next figure suspended from a rope.

 

This one spots him. And fires back. Bucky rolls away as the bullet explodes into the concrete next to his face and he ducks down behind the shallow lip. He flattens himself as best he can, with the puppies kicking at his ribs inside. “Shhh, I know, it hurts, I know…” He winces at the pressure of the babies as they struggle for room against the cold concrete shelf even as he props the gun, peeking through the scope. A vacant wire dangles where the figure once stood. His eyes narrow.

 

A pair of black boots come down over his head, snapping Bucky’s gun out of his hands. He watches as it tumbles the fifty floors down and disintegrates into a million shattered pieces on the ground below. Bucky’s reaching up, into the mask of the assailant, metal hand crushing the weapons-grade plastic right into the guy’s face. It splinters, shattering a cheek bone and producing a pained cry from his attacker. The guy swings, even as Bucky clings to the edge of the building, kicking one leg out and hitting the guy square in the chest. He topples, heavy body flipping over the side and clinging onto the shelf. Bucky’s eyes go black as he brings his boot down onto his fingers, reveling in the “crunch” of breaking bones.

 

The masked man is falling, a splaying mess of fingers and limbs reaching out and grasping onto nothing until he explodes into a red and black mess on the pavement below.

 

Bucky spits at the mound and slides his pistol out. Guess he’s going to have to eye-ball his shots now.

 

>Buck?<

 

Steve’s voice comes over the radio, a barrage of gunfire behind it.

 

>Buck, where are you?<

 

Shit. Someone must have discovered he was missing. Either the attackers have gone that far into the building or someone snitched. Either way, there is no helping it now. “East corner of the Gredwin Building, topside.”

 

>You fucking kidding me?!<

 

“They’re shooting at us, Stevie, what did you expect?” Bucky makes a mental note to remind the Captain that he is, indeed, the Winter Soldier, and not some barefoot housewife. “What’s your position?”

 

>You hang on, you hear me? I’m coming for you!<

 

Bucky glances around the skyline for incoming traffic. He eyes the swaying rope and the detail of windows and ledges surrounding it, but doesn’t see anything, foe or otherwise. His sight takes him higher, to the top of the Avenger’s tower that looms above his standpoint. He sees the outline of the sniper just milliseconds too late.

 

The first shot takes out his gun—smart guy. Bucky can’t flatten himself enough to get out of the line of fire, so he rolls past the second shot, and winces at the sound of crumbling stone. “Could use your help, Cap,” he barks through the radio. The pups are doing backflips in his stomach and it’s all Bucky can do to jump like a jackrabbit and hope this guy runs out of ammo, and soon.

 

The fourth and fifth bullets lands near his boot, taking out a chunk of his foothold and leaving him scampering up the side. Bucky reaches for his knife—a lot of good it’ll do him—and chucks it at the sniper. He hears the familiar “ting” of metal on metal and uses the precious second he has to shimmy down the landing and slip in through an open window.  Bucky slips down the railing of the little shaft he’s in, coming to another window. He kicks out the glass and peers up. The sniper is still there, and the Quinjet is rounding the building. Bucky backs up, rocking back and forth on his feet and sucks in a deep breath, launching himself out of the window.

 

The bullet hits its intended mark. Bucky feels the sudden sting of pain and it rushes through his entire system, making it impossible to locate the actual wound. He is airborne, now, clawing at nothing, catapulting towards the wide iron bird that swoops in low for the catch.

 

Another shot, another searing sting just moments before he collides with the roof of the jet. He lands in a rumpled mess, streaking the metal wing with his own blood. Deep inside him, something has snapped. He can’t feel his legs. Bullets rain in around him as something—someone—grabs hold and pulls him inside. In the Quinjet it’s warm and quiet and Bucky can only mutter “Sorry…sorry…” on repeat as he makes a red mess all over the carpeted interior.

 

“Bucky!” Steve is there, the soothing voice of his alpha calming every synapse. His arms go around him, bathing the both of them in his dark red blood. “You’re okay, you’re okay,” Steve sweeps away sticky bangs from Bucky’s forehead and plants a firm kiss.

 

The life within Bucky shudders, content but fading, as the quinjet and the whole world inside it swirls down a deep, dark drain.

 

* * * * *

 

The light hits the inside of his eyes, illuminating the red veins. He winces a little, rolling his head away from the sensation as he slowly opens them. A blond head rests on a pillow next to his, Steve’s form bent over the railing of the hospital bed. Bucky struggles to smooth back the matted curls but his arm is heavy, so heavy. “Mhhh…” He wriggles and sucks in any breath he can manage to get, settling for using his flesh hand to tuck the blond strands behind Steve’s ear.

 

Steve’s eyes flutter open, two baby-blue pools quietly stirring back to consciousness. He sighs, stretching his biceps and wiggling his face a little closer to Bucky’s shoulder. “Hey, tough guy.”

 

Bucky chuckles a little but hangs on a cough and his hand, covered with electrodes, patches and IV’s flutters to his stomach. His eyes fly open, and he struggles against the two wide hands suddenly holding him down.

 

“Woah—shshh, shh…It’s—it’s okay, Buck. Just lay still.”

 

The dizziness and confusion wrestle with the soothing sound of Steve’s voice, the deep thrum that comes up from way down in his chest, the protective alpha tones. He gives up with a heaving sob, tossing his head back to the pillow. “The---the pups---“

 

“It’s okay,” Steve repeats, but this time his voice breaks a little and there’s red rimming his eyes.

 

“Oh….fuck.” Bucky looks off at nothing, sliding his hand down below the covers to feel what he already knows he’s going to feel.

 

Beneath several damp bandages, his stomach is a flat plane. His eyes snap to the ceiling as the dam breaks and hot tears spill down as Steve twists their fingers together.

 

“Shhh, it’s alright,” Steve coos, his voice regaining its steadiness. He wraps Bucky up in those strong arms and holds on for dear life.

 

* * * * *

 

From an empty corridor, Brock watches, sipping a cup of black coffee that he spiked with a little Jack.

 

It’s true what they say; given time, everything hurts a little less.

 

* * * * *

 


	2. The Pearl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Prelude to a WIP, Baby Boomer. Bucky Barnes is preggers. Brock Rumlow is jealous. Subsequently, so is Steve. Smut, angst, and a surprising amount of fluff in this one. Eww.

Reconstruction of the Tower in the aftermath of the attack is going to take months. While the all-American golden boy and his crew take up residence in a secured facility a few miles away, Rumlow and his team have taken up shop in the nerv center of the tower, with its front door blown wide open and the confidentiality of Shield’s many highly classified missions at stake.

 

It’s been weeks since he slept for more than an hour. Even longer since he had a good meal, and to top things off Rumlow’s entering a rut. A rut that he can’t do a godddamn thing about since being kicked out of Follie’s.

 

“What is this shit?” The guys have learned to scatter when he storms into the room. Good thing for them. A swipe of his hand empties the desk of all contents, sending paper and weapons and gun parts scattering to the floor. “I swear to FUCK, I am running a goddamn kindergarten here!” The veins pop out of his neck on either side as he stalks to the main controls and punches an intercom button. “Monroe, get your FUCKING ASS BACK TO NERV, YOU LITTLE SHIT. AND STOP LEAVING SHIT ALL OVER MY DESK!”

He slams it down, blood pumping so hard he can feel it in his ears.

 

“Well, that’s not very nice,” a familiar voice murmurs from the doorway.

 

Rumlow whips his head around to face the smug brunet as he leans, both hands in his pockets. He feels his heart skip two beats and immediately dissolves into a smile, crossing the distance between them.

 

Bucky looks good. As good as can be expected. His skin is a little paler than usual, but there’s a healthy pink glow breaking through. With his hair pulled back into a messy bun and slouchy jeans that are obviously Steve’s, he almost looks a normal guy who just walked in off the street. Almost. “Hey,” Rumlow mutters, reaching a hand out, not quite sure where to touch. He doesn’t want to treat him like he’s made of glass. That kind of shit usually earns him a beat-down. He can’t treat him like a lover. His hand falters and he pulls away, remembering the radio at his hip. Yeah. That’s it. Check the radio.

 

“Uhm…” Bucky starts, his eyes wandering up to the ceiling, absentmindedly inspecting the damage; the wires hanging from the moved ceiling tiles, the vents hanging open, the battered screen monitors. “Steve sent me for some supplies and shit…”

 

“No he didn’t,” Rumlow’s voice nears a whisper as his dark eyes bare down on Bucky’s averted expression.

 

Bucky does that thing with his bottom lip—the one that Rumlow’s seen a million times now, flicking the bottom edge inward faster than a butterfly wing and drawing it back out before swallowing hard on his wordless tongue. When his eyes finish their flight around the room and Rumlow’s men have gotten the hint and piled out, they settle back to Rumlow, scarred and sad and perfect.

 

Bucky is the one who reaches out this time, touching the side of Rumlow’s face, reveling in the quiet rasp his dark stubble makes against his palm. Rumlow’s eyes slide shut and he bites down on his lip, his adam’s apple darting, as he turns his face into the touch. “Fuck,” he mumurs, his white teeth flashing out to gently bite the skin. Bucky hesitates, but if he wants to pull back Rumlow isn’t going to give him the chance, five fingers wrapping around his wrist, holding him there. “Been so worried about you,” he moans. Alpha hormones taking over, he licks a stripe of saliva over the spot, quivering when Bucky inhales sharply. How badly he wants to bite down. To take him back. To claim Bucky as his own.

 

“Naw,” Bucky says suddenly, chortling as if they are playing some kind of game. He rips his hand away and shoves it in his pocket. “It ain’t like that. I just…I just needed…”

 

“You need me,” Rumlow finishes.

 

A look of guilt stings Bucky’s face but Rumlow tucks a hand around his waist, gently pulling him in. Bucky hisses a little from the pain but doesn’t back off, allowing himself to be drawn into the warmth of Brock’s arms. His head falls to Rumlow’s chest, cinnamon hair tickling his throat. “We’re gonna find them, Rumlow. We’re going to find the bastards that killed my pups.”

 

“You bet your fucking ass we will,” Rumlow mumurs, kissing the top of his head. “And when we do, you’re gonna be the one to draw first blood. I swear.”

 

“I, uh…” Bucky wipes at his eyes with a sleeve. “I have some good news, actually.”

 

“Lay it on me.”

 

“We heard a heartbeat today.”

 

“A…a what?” Rumlow ducks his head to read his expression, a genuine smile pulling at his lips. “Are you kiddin’ me?”

 

“Nope. It’s for real,” Bucky says, nodding his head almost happily. “Just one.”

 

Rumlow huffs a sigh of relief, resisting the urge to pull him in tighter. “Lemme guess, the runt.”

 

“The runt,” Bucky verifies, laughing softly. “He was far enough in there that the bullet didn’t even graze him and the Doc thinks the fall actually started his heart.”

 

“No fuckin’ way. Congratulations, baby, that’s great—“ Rumlow bites down as the pet name escaped, but Bucky just slides him a knowing smile. “Hey, wait…did you say… _’he’_?”

 

Bucky blinks. “Uhm. Yeah…is…that okay?”

 

“Okay? What the hell, Buck? When did you…? I mean, wow…”

 

“So, you’re still okay with…you know…” Bucky scrubs at the nape of his neck, glancing nervously up through thick bangs.

 

“Are you kiddin’ me? Yes. Yes, you dumb idiot. Of course.” Bucky lets out a relieved huff, his lips wet and glistening. The smell is faint, this time, and covered up with the scent of wound-cleaner and the leather off of Bucky’s motorcycle. “Yer still riding that damn thing?” Rumlow grunts out, sliding a hand under the canvas jacket Bucky wears, around to the softness and the warmth of the curve of his spine. He angles his head, his chin brushing up against Bucky’s collarbone, just under the gland that smells just like Steve. He growls a little.

 

“Uhm…” Bucky backs up, far as he’s able before the wall collides with his shoulders and his legs get tangled in Rumlow’s. “You...you don’t look well.”

 

“Yeah, a week of sleep deprivation’ll do that to ya. You oughta’ know that.” Rumlow nips against the gland, every alpha instinct in him screaming at him to _bite down,_ get rid of the rival smell.

 

“Rum-Rumlow,” Bucky starts, sliding both hands up under the agent’s neck and pushing back, peeling his head from under his soft, brown hair.

 

“No, no no no c’mon, you _came_ to _me._ ” Rumlow plants a hand on the wall, because that usually works, like it did their first time, and with the kid in Follie’s. A cold steel hand grips just under his chin and clenches—a warning, because if it were anything else, Brock’s head would be opened up like a ripe tomato right now. Having him here, in his arms, so goddamn close to where they first began. The alpha in him overpowers common sense and he closes the gap, leaning forward to gather Bucky’s bottom lip between his teeth and suck inward.

 

“Mmh…” Bucky jolts, but opens his mouth obediently and _holy fuck_ Brock stuffs down his surprise in favor of tasting more of _that mouth,_ grasping his face in both hands and kisses him hungrily, chasing the taste of their tongues mingling together. “Brock…Brock, stop.” Bucky throws his head to the side, coming up for air, chest heaving.

 

Rumlow presses their foreheads together, teeth bared, blood pumping faster and sending pressure and heat straight to his cock. He grunts, shifting uncomfortably, and that move alone is enough for Bucky to slip out from his grasp.

 

Bucky heads straight for the door and Rumlow pounds his head against the wall, watching that tight ass wiggle just below the hemline of his jacket as he shuffles out the door. “I _know_ you love him,” Rumlow calls after, his voice rough and raspy. Bucky stops as the sunlight from the hallway hits his metal arm, both fists balled up tight. “Is it too much to ask for you to love me too?”

 

Bucky swallows hard before turning on his heel and disappearing out the door. 

 

Rumlow puts a hole in the freshly-painted drywall.

 

* * * * *

 

3 months later…

 

Steve is certain he has never seen Bucky so tired. Or so content. A little wailing body topped with a tuft of blond hair lays swathed in his arms, wrapped up in a purple fleece onesie, complete with patterned Avengers logos courtesy of Uncle Clint. Who knew the dead-eye could sew? “Hey, little guy,” Steve bends down over the two, smoothing back Bucky’s sweat-streaked brow, his eyes welling and his stomach tied in a million knots. The baby arrived red-faced and wailing, and hasn’t shut up since. His pudgy feet stick out of the blanket, kicking furiously at his Daddy, whose eyebrows fly up in surprise. “Well, then.”

 

Bucky lets out a weak laugh. “Well, I guess he’s an asshole. Probably gets that from you.”

 

“Probably,” Steve chides with a shrug, contenting himself with the powerful little fingers making their very first fist around his pointer finger.

 

“He’s uhm…” A powerful pink settles along Bucky’s cheeks and he ducks his head. “He’s probably hungry.”

 

Steve feels the heat rising to his own face and scratches the back of his head. “Oh, uh. Yeah. Uhm…”

Bucky eyes the group of eager attendees and a lightbulb finally flicks on above Steve’s head. He turns and waves the group out of the room, ushering them out and closing the door. “Better?”

 

Bucky’s eyes narrow. “You too.”

 

Steve straightens up, feeling his hackles raise just a little. “What…why me?”

 

Bucky lets out a shuddering breath, bouncing the fussing little boy in his arms, the jiggling only making the sound coming out of the little demon more resonant. “Come on, man. It’s…you know…weird.”

 

“Buck,” Steve mumurs, sliding into the rolling chair alongside the hospital bed. “It’s totally natural. Look, we’re both about to embark upon something new and scary and exciting.” A sharp, bright inhale brings with it his shining smile, blue eyes tipped up towards the overly bright surgical light, glittering with all their American glory. “I’m just glad to be right here with you.”

 

“God, you’re cheesy,” Bucky mumurs. It earns him a soft punch on the arm, and his shoulders relax a little. He draws out a shuddering breath as he rolls one sleeve of the hospital gown down. “Okay, just. Don’t look.”

 

His flesh arm juts out to shove at Steve’s bicep, and the alpha obeys, closing his eyes and placing one hand over them. “There. Better?”

 

“Yeah. I guess.” Shifting noises ensue as Bucky struggles to lift the pup into place. A little unsatisfied squeal erupts from the fuzzy blanket, powerful chubby legs kicking out in protest. “Well, hold on….will ya…runt…”

 

Steve cheats. He secretively peers out through closed fingers as Daddy and Baby compose an undignified dance around Bucky’s slightly pronounced nipple. A snicker breaks free and a pillow goes sailing into his face, nearly knocking him off the hospital chair.

 

“Fuckface! You looked!”

 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” A voice barges in. Bucky’s head snaps up first, his eyes going wide, the pink blush of his cheeks deepening to a beating red that spreads down his exposed chest. Steve’s reaction is quite opposite—he stiffens, laugh sliding into an instantaneous growl and smile to a death-glare. “You’re both numbskulls,” Rumlow mumurs, sauntering in and crossing the room in three quick strides. He plucks up a metal folding chair on the way, the only other piece of furniture in the room, and plants himself shoulder-to-shoulder with scowling papa-bear. “Here, you gotta give him the left one.”

 

Bucky’s eyes flutter. “What? Why?”

 

Rumlow bites down on his lip, eyeing Bucky with uncharacteristic hesitancy. “You’re uhm.” He flicks a finger out towards the nipple in question. “You’re leaking outta that one.”

 

Bucky looks down, swallowing hard when he sees Rumlow is clearly right.  When he doesn’t make any sudden move to change the course of things, Rumlow laughs under his breath and plucks the squealing brat from the warmth and comfort of his Daddy’s embrace.

 

Steve looks as if he is about to kill himself a Shield agent with his two bare hands.

 

Rumlow ignores him, flipping the baby head-to-tail, spinning him to face Steve. Without hesitation, he sweeps a hand over the rumple of the hospital gown and plunks the kid’s face right in Bucky’s left pectoral.

 

“Owh!” Bucky jumps as the kid latches on and Rumlow shrugs triumphantly. “See? Whatd’ I tell ya?”

 

“Thanks,” Bucky says, but it sounds a lot like _fuck you._

 

Steve glances over his new little family, stunned and impressed, all hatred for the rival alpha suddenly (if momentarily) forgotten. “How did you…?” Steve’s voice trails off. He’s better off not asking questions he’s pretty sure he doesn’t want the answer to.

 

Rumlow’s not about to tell him, either. Sure as fuck not going to let him know that the first time around, when the Asset was far along enough to start producing, that Rumlow had went to town on those perfect, slightly-rounded peaks. That his chin-stubble swept across Bucky’s ribcage as he drew a hardening bud into his mouth and made him beg to be fucked. To be knotted by his baby-Daddy, his handler, his _Alpha_. He won’t tell Steve about the saccharine, flowery taste and how he drew it out of Bucky like honey from a comb. No, he just sets his jaw and flashes him an icy smile, drawing out two thin pieces of card-stock and setting them on the stand beside the gurney.

 

“What’s this?,” Bucky asks, peering over the happily suckling baby at the scraps of paper.

 

“Fox Forrest Shooting Range. Lifetime memberships. One for me and one for…the kid.” Rumlow peers down at the wrinkly little face and something akin to happiness stirs in him, however briefly.

 

Steve pouts. Bucky smiles.

 

“What did you two decide to name the lil’ turd anyway?” Rumlow stares down at the fuzzy yellow head, intent to feel *nothing*…but he just can’t quite manage to rid himself of the disturbingly tender feeling currently warming his heart.

 

“Bailey,” Bucky says with a sincere, if tired smile. “Bailey Steven Barnes.”

 

 

 


End file.
